Chapter Text
Things start to get weird on a Sunday late in summer. Rennes and Vesemir have invited them all to enjoy what will probably be the last barbecue of the season and Voltehre makes sure to show up at his adoptive parents' house just late enough to not be put on salad duty. His plan backfires as he is for once the first to arrive.
"Where the fuck is everyone?" Voltehre grumbles as Vesemir hands him a peeler and a stack of carrots.
"Language," Rennes shouts from the backyard where he's fiddling with the barbecue.
"No kids around yet," Voltehre yells back and longingly looks at the hallway leading to the toilet.
"Less daydreaming, more peeling," Vesemir mutters and Voltehre's shoulders drop.
"No but really, where is everyone?"
"Ciri and Deidre have a basketball match this morning and Eskel, Geralt and Yennefer are in the stands to cheer them on. They should arrive in an hour if they don't get stuck in traffic."
Alright. That's a legitimate excuse.
"What about the others then?"
Lambert's absence isn't surprising, he's always running late, but Coën and Dragonfly should be here already.
"Lambert's car got towed yesterday..."
"What?"
"... and Coën and Dragonfly went to pick him up. They're swinging by the pound to retrieve his car."
"You can't be serious! Lambert of all people let his car go to the pound?"
Voltehre can't believe it. Lambert whose apartment is the tidiest Voltehre has ever seen, Lambert who only ever leaves his car on designated parking places, Lambert who has never even lost a sock, this Lambert apparently just forgot his car in such a place that it got towed. It's... unbelievable.
"Was he stoned or something?" Voltehre wonders incredulously.
"I would hope not but he didn't explain himself," Vesemir mutters, "You do know that those carrots won't peel themselves, right?"
"Dad," Voltehre whines, "You know that I hate cooking!"
"Well, you're the only one here and I can't do everything by myself so chop chop, the tomatoes and potatoes are waiting for you too."
Voltehre groans and waits for Vesemir to drop a beer in front of him before starting to peel the damn stack of carrots. He works until they hear two sets of tires making their way into the courtyard's gravel and then jumps off his seat and runs to the front door.
He waves at Dragonfly and Coën and then grins at Lambert as he gets out of his car. His brother is already scowling and he bangs his car door shut harshly but he still squeezes Voltehre's shoulder in passing before stomping into the house. Voltehre looks at Lambert's tense back and then turns to Coën and his girlfriend.
“You're late!”
“Blame it on Lambert,” Coën grins and drags him into a hug.
“Did the prick really get his car towed?”
“Language!” Dragonfly rebukes him.
“No kids here yet,” Voltehre says and then tugs her into his arms too, “No, but really, what happened?”
“Your guess is as good as mine,” Coën shrugs, “Lambert is being surprisingly tight-lipped about the whole thing.”
“I think he's embarrassed,” Dragonfly chimes in, “So you both should try to behave and be nice to him.”
Voltehre shares a look with Coën and they both beam at Dragonfly before taking off and chasing after Lambert. They badger their brother until Ciri and Deidre run into the kitchen excitedly shouting about having won their game but Lambert doesn't talk and the mystery of his towed car is easily forgotten in all the chaos.
They all meet for lunch at Rennes and Vesemir's at least twice a month, always on Sunday, and things are back to normal during their next encounters. Coën and Dragonfly show up first, Lambert last and Voltehre somewhere in between him and Eskel and Geralt to avoid the cooking chores. The girls win more games, lose some too and their whole family shows up at their Christmas game to cheer them on.
And then two weeks after Christmas, Lambert arrives really late at lunch. He'd texted ahead to let them know that he'd run into some kind of trouble and to tell them that they shouldn't wait for him to start eating. They all look at each other and Vesemir sighs, takes the potatoes off the fire and gets out another pack of beer to prolong the aperitif. They're lucky they're eating a raclette, otherwise they wouldn't have been able to wait for Lambert.
Voltehre is lounging on the thick rug in front of the fireplace with Dragonfly and they're making a puzzle with Deidre while Ciri is playing chess against Rennes at the table when they hear a new car arrive. Vesemir sighs and wordlessly heads to the kitchen to finish cooking the potatoes while Voltehre looks at the clock and winces when he sees that it's almost two in the afternoon and that Lambert is three hours late.
They all perk up when they hear Lambert bang his car's door shut and curse at the cold as he makes his way towards the house. He seems particularly vehement today and Voltehre has to stiffle a laugh when he spots Deidre silently mouthing some of Lambert's most colorful swears back at herself. He already feels sorry for Eskel who will have to deal with her.
“Sorry, sorry, I'm late,” Lambert shouts as he enters the hallway and bangs the front door shut behind him, “But the damn roads are fucking icy and Ai...”
Lambert abruptly cuts his sentence off and Voltehre does a double take when he sees him enter the living room, the heated living room, with his heavy winter coat still on his back.
“You what?” Voltehre asks.
“Coats' rack in the hallway,” Rennes grumbles at the same time and Lambert freezes.
He looks at all of them, clears his throat and even jumps a little when Vesemir comes back from the kitchen. Oh. Voltehre has a feeling there's a good story to wheedle out of him and he exchanges a wolfish grin with Coën.
“Are you cold?” Vesemir asks when he spots Lambert loitering in the doorway with his coat still on.
“Hum... No.”
“Sick?” Rennes wonders.
“No.”
“Then you better take your coat off,” Vesemir points out, “I'd hate for you to get overheated.”
“In a minute, perhaps,” Lambert whispers, fidgets and then looks at Rennes, “I... uhm... I might need your lockpicks? If you still have them? Please.”
“My lockpicks?” Rennes asks, flabbergasted, “What do you need my lockpicks for?”
Lambert mumbles something unintelligible under his breath and Voltehre slowly gets up. He and Coën carefully flank Lambert and pounce on him as soon as they're close enough. Coën traps Lambert into a headlock and Voltehre hurries to unbutton his coat. He's aware of Coën grunting in pain, Lambert thrashing and screaming bloody murder, the girls encouraging them and Vesemir swatting them with his newspaper, but he still keeps on undressing Lambert.
The shirt Lambert is wearing is boringly normal, nothing he'd want to hide from them, so Voltehre keeps going and slips his brother's arms out of his sleeves. And there attached to Lambert's right wrist is one handcuff. And definitely not one used by the police. The cuff is furry red, looks like a prop from a cheap porno set and the chain that connected it to the other cuff has clearly been cut off by a pair of pliers. That might explain why Lambert needs Rennes' lockpicks.
“Did you get arrested, Uncle Lambert?” Deidre asks, concerned.
Lambert turns beet red and Voltehre cackles as he lifts his brother's right hand high in the air. Ciri and Deidre are the only ones who look worried, but they soon lose their frowns as everyone starts laughing out loud.
“Yeah, yeah, laugh it up, assholes,” Lambert grumbles as Coën finally lets him go, “Can I get those lockpicks now?”
Rennes shakes his head but gets up without a word. He's still smiling as he hands Lambert his lockpicks but he doesn't say anything and only pushes Lambert down into a chair and takes off with his coat. Voltehre immediately takes the seat on Lambert's right, Coën the left and they both lean towards their brother with matching shit-eating grins on their faces.
"Sooooo," Voltehre drawls.
"Do you, per chance, have some juicy news to share with us?" Coën asks.
"Spent a good evening?"
"Planning to introduce us soon?"
"Fuck off," Lambert growls and keeps fiddling with the cuff, "Fucking useless piece of no-good shit."
"How did you even end up in this predicament?" Voltehre asks, genuinely curious, "You're usually more careful than that."
"Well, I wouldn't be stuck in this stupid predicament as you call it if it were my cuff, would I?"
“So you're letting someone take you home and tie you up now,” Voltehre prods him, “Must be a serious relationship then.”
“I'm not letting him do anything to me, we talk about this shit, like adults,” Lambert grunts and violently jams the lockpicks into the cuff's lock, “Dammit!”
“And did you talk about that too?” Coën laughs.
“Yes, of fucking course we did!” Lambert hisses, the sarcasm in his voice so pronounced that Voltehre winces, “I told him that I'd love to show up at our family lunch with a stupid cuff still tied around my stupid wrist because he lost the stupid keys!”
Lambert bangs his hand on the table and then tries to forcibly pull the cuff off, but he only manages to scratch his wrist. Voltehre sighs and steals the lockpicks from his lax fingers.
“Here, let me,” he says and commandeers Lambert's wrist.
Lambert slumps in his chair, closes his eyes and allows Voltehre to fiddle with the lock to his heart's content.
“You know,” Coën muses, “They make leather cuffs that you can fasten with straps now. You should look into that, it'll save you the embarrassment of showing up at family dinner with your wrist trapped in another garish cuff.”
“Already one step ahead of you,” Lambert mumbles as his cheeks turn red again, “New pair, with straps, was ordered this morning.”
“Does this mean that you're planning to keep seeing the mysterious person who lost the handcuffs' keys?” Voltehre asks.
“Maybe.”
“Mm. You must like them very much if you're willing to go back to them after this clusterfuck,” Coën adds.
“You're a bunch of nosy assholes, you know that, right?”
“Aha!” Voltehre suddenly exclaims as the cuff falls open, “And you're free, dear brother of mine.”
“Awesome,” Lambert retorts drily.
“I want to be paid in answers now!”
“Go fuck yourself. The both of you,” Lambert grumbles, picks up the cuff and heads for the kitchen to dispose of it.
“You're an ungrateful brat,” Voltehre yells after him.
Lambert flips them off without looking back and Voltehre fully intends to chase him and badger him some more, but Ciri climbs onto his knees before he can get up and Deidre sits down opposite him on Coën's thighs.
“Uncle Voltehre,” Ciri asks and turns big pleading eyes on him, “Is Uncle Lambert in trouble?”
“No, of course not, darling,” he reassures her and gently pets her hair.
“Then why was he handcuffed?” Deidre huffs and crosses her arms over her chest in a good imitation of Yennefer when she's annoyed.
“Yes, Uncle Voltehre,” Coën, the bastard, chuckles, “Why was Lambert handcuffed?”
Asshole, Voltehre mouths at Coën before clearing his throat and looking at his two nieces.
“Well... How do I put it...? When two people like and trust each other very, very much...”
“Voltehre,” Eskel interrupts him sharply, “They're eleven for fuck's sake...”
“Language!” Rennes grumbles, “There has been enough profanity in this house for the whole month!”
“...so you better watch your mouth!”
“Ah. Hell,” Voltehre whines, “What do you suggest I tell them then?”
He's saved from having to come up with an explanation by Vesemir who loudly proclaims that the potatoes are cooked, deposits the dish in the middle of the table and orders everyone to take a seat. Lambert brings the cheese, Geralt switches on the raclette device and Voltehre sends the two kids towards Yennefer who settles them at the end of the table. They still try to get Lambert to spill the beans about the person he spent his night with, but he stays stubbornly tight-lipped and they drop the subject before his annoyance at their questions can turn into anger. They certainly don't forget this incident though.